


Another Side, Another Story

by igrab, kalelle



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:43:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrab/pseuds/igrab, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalelle/pseuds/kalelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tell me, Halfling. Can a book teach you what wine tastes like? Or how a stew tastes. Did your book learnings prepare you for trolls or dwarves or elves? A book cannot touch you, Hobbit. It cannot embrace you, or kiss you, it cannot hold your wrists to a bed and undress you, it cannot make you blush." The weight of his gaze as he looked Bilbo over was almost like a physical force. "A book can neither fuck you nor make love to you, though the right one might be able to tell you what the difference is."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as, the one in which two characters with very rambly head-thoughts have far too many head-thoughts.

Despite the early summer dusk warming over like precious silks, turning late afternoon gold to vibrant purples and pinks and oranges, scoring the sky and clouds overhead with a rainbow before fading it all out to the deepest and royalest of blues, Thorin Oakenshield could tell the moment he stepped foot in the Shire. He came in off the East Road out of Bree, and through his sturdy Dwarvish boots he could feel the road as it softened from the tread of horses and ponies to the distinct wear of feet, the edge of where they did not often tread almost ascertainable by a single footstep. 

The leather strap of his pony’s reins rubbed against his callous hand, and he gave a sharp tug to dissuade the beast from meandering off the path. The trees whispered and rustled in the slight breeze, the grass grew plentiful and lush. He could see houses set in the rolling hills, with little candles in their windows and brazers. Insects hummed, and his pony called out to the local livestock as it grazed. 

The Shire was, in a word, beautiful. Lush and well cared for, the paths lovingly worn down by Halflings and their queer habit of going about without shoes. The homes were cozy and precious, with gardens out front and little gates with mailboxes. He saw the occasional person outside enjoying the warmth, men in waistcoats with their sleeves rolled up carefully, smoking their pipes, women wrangling children growing tired from a day at play and no doubt ready to be tucked into bed. He paid them no mind, and they paid him far too much mind. The Shire was beautiful and he resented it and its people. 

_How idyllic their homes_ , he thought to himself as he strode down the path past a sign pointing towards Marish and the Woodhall, _how quaint their families. Do they not know_ , his face set in a hard grimace, _how easily it could all be taken from them. How easily their homes in the hills would burn and collapse. Do they know how fast their grass and crops would turn to smoke?_

 _No,_ he reasoned to himself, passing the sturdy wooden post marking the path to Budgeford and Bridgefields, _they do not know to fear or fear to dream of fire and dragons, of their children turned to ash_. A hard knot clenched painfully in his chest and he yanked at the reins a little harder than necessary. These people knew nothing of war or of pain, their life was peace and prosper and proprietary. And he hated them for it. 

_Only fools try to deceive themselves_ , his memory supplied the words as fast as he tried to suppress them, _And only cowards succeed._

And at the mental council of ghosts, Thorin grumbled darkly and admitted to the privacy of his own thoughts that no, no he did not hate the Hobbits. Not for their plentiful land or their lovingly built homes with their soft beds and their collections of trinkets. Not for their peace and their soft hands and rotund bellies. 

Thorin regarded the Hobbits like dwarven children, certainly they were of similar stature and softness in the face. They were innocents, and the lion’s share of a century wasn’t enough time to grind the desire to protect out of the young prince. So engrossed in his thoughts, such as they bit at their own tail like a lame snake, he managed to miss the road. ‘Hobbiton’ was what the wizard had said. ‘Hobbiton’ and ‘Bag End.’ Names of places that settled in his mind, objectively someone’s home, many peoples’ homes, perhaps. But not Erebor, and not home to him. 

So, with a mutter about Hobbits and their gentle land, far more bitter than needed for being in the company of a pony, a dozen firebugs, and the yawning expanse of the sky, he turned back and walked a ways. And managed to miss the road a second time. _Such was the luck of the heir of Durín,_ he thought to himself, aggressively turning the pony about face once more. 

Once properly on track, he did not let his mind consume itself again, this time paying keener attention. Hobbiton was well upon him, distinguishable by the increase in houses noticeable only by their great, round doors and deep set windows. _An unlikely place for a burglar,_ his mind supplied, ever mutinous to his intentions, _but how often is a wizard wrong?_

The answer was ‘Not very.’ and he had already passed the portion of the evening where his mind attempted to deceive itself, so there was little point grumbling about it with no one to listen to him. And besides, the pony might know where a burglar was to live from the fuss it had begun to make, neighing and tossing its head. The beast had heard its kin only a few moments before Thorin heard his own, the sounds of boisterous dwarves filtering through the peace, and a group of ponies far up along the path and up a hill, all tied to a quaint fence. 

For a moment, Thorin considered seriously questioning the success rate of this particular wizard’s judgement calls. But the blue rune called to him like the mothers at Bywater called to their children, and he squared his shoulders and marched up the hill, tying off his pony next to the others. 

_Perhaps old Gandalf was right,_ he thought to himself, _perhaps this Halfling is the man for the job, the one who can help us reclaim our home._ Hope was not a bird that Thorin often held in a cage, it was not something he kept with him to sing him to sleep. And when the door opened to reveal the most un-extraordinary Hobbit he’d ever seen, his stony expression slammed into place and he damn near snapped the Hope-bird’s neck.

If this was their salvation, he’d rather face the dragon alone.

•

He felt shaken head to toe; like a massive wind had come up and swept through him and disturbed every part of him that ever believed in anything at all. A wind, he thought, made of wizards and dwarves.

He couldn't put a finger on what, exactly, ended up being the final catalyst to flying out the door half-cocked without even a pocket-handkerchief. What Gandalf had said, about his ancestors - that stuck under his skin, but he would've been perfectly comfortable paying no heed to the words of wizards, thank-you-very-much. They were odd, and Bilbo was no stranger to odd, since he kept his door so firmly latched against it. The dwarves weren't odd. They were just... dwarves, but they would've been easy enough to ignore, too.

But then he'd heard the Dwarf-King sing.

And then it seemed as if he'd blinked and here he was, on a pony of all things, and he'd left the Shire far behind him and his sanity farther still, what little of it he had left. He could dimly remember being cross at not having anything at all left in his pantry, and the pipes were stuck and he couldn't take a proper bath unless they were un-stuck and really, what was he going to do with this long silly piece of paper? And would the King of Erebor remember him as the hobbit who never left home and never did anything interesting and never proved himself worthy of a dwarf's regard?

No, no, he couldn't have that. Not one bit. He'd show them. He was a hobbit, and he was far from home and he wasn't on an adventure, but he was no coward. He would do whatever it was they asked of him, and then he would take his share and go home.

•

It was not long into their journey that Thorin found himself of the opinion that if one were to leave Bilbo Baggins alone in an empty clearing for an afternoon with nothing but dust and wind, he could very probably find himself in some sort of trouble. His evidence to this fact was that left alone in the Shire, he managed to find himself mixed up with a baker’s dozen of dwarves, and when sent to bring soup to the dwarves put in charge of watching the ponies, he managed to get himself hung upside down by trolls. Naturally.

Though the content of their company was peppered with warriors, they were all brave hearts, and despite the Hobbit’s lapse in judgement, aided in part by Fili and Kili and their complete inability to make sound choices, they were all, the baker’s dozen, willing to charge into the clearing with weapons drawn. Or sling-shot drawn, be it the case. 

The skirmish was confusing, which was to their advantage, and quick, which was rather not, because before they could properly fell one beast let alone the three, Thorin found himself facing a sight that send a snap of chill through his bones. The Hobbit, held between two trolls, by arms and legs. Thorin stopped dead, and called the others to a halt. Their threat was clear, it did not need to be spoken, and to hear it did nothing for Thorin. For the choice he had to make. He could sense eyes flick to him, then to the trolls, and really, there was no choice. No debate or argument. They laid down arms so that the Halfling might keep his. 

The unceremonious trussing and bagging, the sight of his kin tied to a spit, it made Thorin’s blood boil. And fire, always fire. He wondered if it was his fate to watch everything in his life burn away. Futilely, he struggled against the bonds, attempting to work himself free so that he might miraculously rescue them from this. It would be a sorry state of affairs if they had set off to slay a dragon only to be eaten by trolls.

Later he would reflect on the moment, when the Hobbit managed to find a way to his feet, to stumble forward. How his voice was raised in the way of a man who never had a reason to fight to be heard until recently, quavering at first, and then growing stronger. At first Thorin could hardly believe his ears. Did the Hobbit mean to sell them all to the trolls in exchange for freedom? Did he mean to ensure them tortured? He could hardly believe it of the small, delicate thing, with his handkerchiefs and his velvet robe and his charming waistcoat. Hobbits were vocal about how civilized they were, and here the Hobbit spoke of skinning them all. And, later, when reflecting back, Thorin might admit that he was no scholar or especially quick study in the art of deception, and the Hobbit certainly had cause to speak so ill of them after their words, his own especially. But the Halfling’s attempt was clever. He would not admit it out loud, of course, for cleverness can only get you so far and there was no need to encourage cleverness in a being so easily crushed should he not be clever enough.

When they were free, and the blasted wizard was chewing his ear for his treatment of the Hobbit, Thorin briefly entertained the thought of thanking the halfling. Very briefly. Luck was not to be leaned on, and it seemed as though their burglar had run into a patch of his own. Very fortunate, as was the nature of luck, that it had ended with them all alive and in one piece, but a Hobbit of the Shire had no place beyond those well worn trails, beyond the beautiful fields with it’s firebugs and it’s impossible expanse of sky. If Bilbo Baggins had any sense, he would turn right around and go back to his cavernous hole in the ground. 

The Hobbit might have run into luck, but Thorin Oakenshield, as ever, certainly did not. 

As for Bilbo, the episode with the trolls left him a bit shaky and weak at the knees and very, _very_ much in need of a long hot bath and a longer night's sleep. He got neither of those things, of course. Was he ever going to see a proper bath again? No, not likely. And for all he'd very likely saved all their dwarven arses, yes, thank you, the one person he'd wanted to impress was giving him more of the cold shoulder than ever. 

Confused and disheartened, he plopped down beside Kili as they tended the fire one night. He almost took that space in between them, so hungry was he for comfort, but he'd thought better of it - he couldn't remember ever seeing them separated, even for a moment, and the other dwarves all seemed to give them a curious space, as if something between them had knit their souls to one piece and couldn't possibly be separated.

"Why the long face?" Kili teased, grabbing hold of Bilbo's beardless chin and waggling it back and forth. He halfheartedly tried to fend him off, but even Kili was far too strong, no match for him in the slightest.

"No reason," he muttered, trying instead to stick his tongue out and fend him off another way. Kili gave a little cry between delight and disgust and yanked his hand away, and the quiet Fili broke into a bubbling laugh.

Kili wiped his fingers on Bilbo's coat (disgusting, but entirely warranted, and it was filthy enough besides) and leaned back against Fili's side. "But really, what's got you down? Homesick?"

Bilbo blinked. Yes, he supposed he was, but... no, that wasn't really what bothered him. Missing home had just become a part of his daily routine.

However, he hadn't spent years upon years fending off mothers and aunts of unmarried young ladies (the aunts were the worst - vicious, nasty little things) for nothing. He knew how to turn the conversation to other things.

"So... how exactly _did_ the two of you lose track of the ponies?"

They sputtered and stammered and blushed and laughed and it ended up being Gloin, of all people, who had to spell it out for the poor confused hobbits.

"The blasted idiots were neckin' in the trees," he grumbled, whapping them both upside the back of the head. "Can't ye keep it in your bloody pants for two minutes?"

"We did," Kili piped back up instantly. "And then those two minutes were up-"

"And somethin' else was, too," Fili finished for him, sending the other into a fit of giggles.

Thorin's voice called out from across the fire. “That’s enough out of both of you. Hush before the lot of you turn into giggling maidens.”

"They already are," Gloin muttered under his breath, but none of them noticed the way that Bilbo shrank back in on himself a little. Kili... and Fili? But they were both - well. Aside from being brothers, which Bilbo wasn't all that shocked at - everyone in the Shire was related, after all - but they were both. Well. 

They both had... things. Between their. You know. They were both - but then, were they? Did dwarves even have a fairer sex, or were they all - 

“Master Baggins. Would you be so kind as to gather more water from the stream for us,” though his words were formed as a request, Thorin's tone left no such pleasantries, “Kili. Firewood. Fili, make sure our packs are ready for the morning. We leave before dawn. I suggest you all retire soon.”

•

Things were fairly hairy for a bit there (what with the funny little wizard, whom Bilbo quite liked as a matter of fact, and then the orcs, and the running about, and Gandalf herding them into Rivendell like cattle), but the back of Bilbo's mind was churning like a water wheel, turning things over and over and reaching no satisfying conclusion in the slightest.

He watched Fili and Kili, and now that he was watching he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. They adored each other, and for the swiftest, fleetest moment Bilbo wondered what it must be like to love like only a dwarf could love - with all of you, with every bone and sinew, with every drop of blood in your veins.

Thorin Oakenshield was watching him watch the others.

Thorin was not unfamiliar with coexisting with other cultures. While living in Erebor, there was the town of Dale and its Men, there was mingling with Elves, there was the odd batch of nomadic Dwarves who did not call the mountain home. But he could honestly say that he had never had any prolonged contact with any number of Hobbits before. They were a soft folk, and they stayed in their Shire more often than not. The ones he had met over the years were very likely considered odd by their kin. 

As such, it was a fascinating experience, watching the Halfling, how he interacted with the others, how he held himself. And though Thorin found himself frequently holding him up to the standard of Dwarves, he was very frequently reminded of how different Dwarves and Hobbits were. The most recent example of this being the Hobbit’s reception to the news of Kili and Fili. Though theirs was perhaps an unconventional love, not for their gender but for their kinship, Thorin found he could hardly fault them, and certainly would never actively impede the love of others. 

When his mind was not consumed with it’s never ending spiral of thoughts, of home and Erebor, of Smaug and gold and his birthright, of his fellow Dwarves and even of the Hobbit himself, he wondered about the Shire. How peace had treated them and their sons and daughters, how the rolling hills gave birth to gentlefolk. But an odd gentlefolk, with odd customs. To say Master Baggins was shocked more than scandalized was accurate, and Thorin found that the affection and respect he afforded every one of their company, _Myself included, despite my treatment of him,_ extended so far as to not make a spectacle of it. He had heard no ill comments from the Halfling, and there were no disgusted looks that one might expect from a culture so rigidly defined in their definition of love. _Curious,_ Thorin though, _perhaps enough to bear discussion._

The ever present discontent that Thorin felt in the presence of Elves chewed on his bones, distracting him from his thoughts. He tolerated them for the sake of his people, and would grudgingly admit that their hospitality was a welcome respite, if only it weren’t their hospitality. Though he distracted himself from his anger, the old kind of anger that ran hot in his veins and licked at his mind, curiosity alone could not keep him occupied for long. Fortunate, then, that Gandalf and his clever words enticed Elrond to examine his map. Though he was loathe to let it leave his hands, he would, in the privacy of his own mind, admit that Gandalf was right, and Elrond was perhaps the only one who would agree to assist them.

 _And perhaps,_ he thought to himself with a solidly suppressed grin, _there is something to Gandalf’s claim of our burglar’s skill._ Thorin could barely feel the Hobbit behind them; those sturdy feet were silent against the stone and the sound of his fine clothes no more substantial than a breeze. _So small and gentle, and here I am leading him to the jaws of a dragon. Truly, I will make a great King._

As Bilbo watched them pore over the map, he formed his questions in his head, lined them up like thirteen wine-glasses on the kitchen counter, ready and waiting for company to come.

"Thorin?" he ventured, when Elrond and Gandalf had swept out of the library, their cloaks billowing quite grandly behind them.

The prince turned, eyeing him speculatively, his mess of curls and worn velvet coat, his tarnished buttons. So far from home, among strangers and strangers to strangers. He inclined his head to him, acknowledging him and welcoming him to speak. “Hobbit.” 

Bilbo swallowed. "It's, ah." Goodness. How was he supposed to put this into words? Let alone that it was _Thorin_ he was speaking to, of all people - Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, who had shown quite plainly that his standards were mighty high indeed and a little hobbit like Bilbo couldn't ever hope to meet them.

Not that he'd ever stop trying. He'd come all this way, hadn't he? There was nothing for it but to press on.

"I have... questions, I suppose." He twiddled his thumbs and stared at the beautiful stained glass ceiling and tried to think of a way to put this that wouldn’t sound terribly offensive. "About Kili and Fili."

Thorin cocked an eyebrow as the Hobbit seemed to gather his words, or his wits as the case might be, to voice his inquiry. The prince was not surprised to hear that it was the matter of his nephews that had prompted the halfling to follow him. Thorin had a salacious thought or two, but out of respect or avoidance gave them no floor on which to dwell. 

“If you can manage to look me in the face to ask and not tax my patience, such as it is, perhaps I can give you answers.” Thorin’s low voice held threads of amusement in them, and he was already predicting the kind of soft spoken outrage that Hobbit had demonstrated in his own home those long nights ago. “Go on. Ask.” 

Bilbo's eyes snapped down to frown at the dwarf - and he was surprised to see the amusement in those blue eyes. It gave him courage, in a way, to clear his throat and pose his question. "Is that... common? Among dwarves?" 

Right, well, it could have been better phrased, but he was quite understandably a bit _disconcerted_ about the whole matter.

A defensiveness of the uncontrollable sort threatened to rise up in the king, and he very swiftly put it in it’s place. He didn’t think the Hobbit capable of being insulting on purpose, and certainly did not seem to think his kind better than Thorin’s. All the same, Thorin took a moment, regarding Bilbo with an easy stare, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his chin down once in acknowledgement of the question.

“I take it you know very little of Dwarves. Our men vastly outnumber our women, but there is no shortage of admirable souls. We regard each other as simply Dwarves first, and men or women secondarily. A relationship between men is as common as gold among my people. Though,” and he let a very slight grin play across his handsome face, “I’ve heard that it would send a Hobbit into a case of the _vapours_ to hear of such a thing.”

Bilbo snorted. And made a little hiccuping noise in the back of his throat and sniffed. "Yes, well, I'm quite certain most Hobbits would go a bit catatonic at the thought of taking tea with dwarves in a palace of elves." _And preferring their company,_ Bilbo thought with a bit of surprise at himself. Yes, he found the elves to be fascinating and Rivendell to be... glorious, but when all was said and done, he found himself to be much more at ease among the familiar eccentricities of the dwarves.

"It's just - it's not done, among hobbits, I mean it is but it's - you're right, is what I mean," he finally spit out, stumbling over his words like rocks in a stream. "And no, I don't know much of dwarves, so I feel a bit... at a loss."

“ _It_ ,” he cocked his eyebrow again, features every sardonic, and leaned a breath closer to Bilbo, “is perfectly accepted among my people. Though perhaps you’d prefer to speak to Glóin. He is wed to a woman, with a son of his own. I’ll admit that he’s a bit old fashioned as far as long-beards go, but that might suit your Hobbit sensibilities.” 

Thorin put some effort into softening the timbre of his voice, letting his lips twitch into an expression that meant no overwhelming offence. He was teasing the Hobbit, he rather belatedly realized, to watch the way he stuttered and flushed and tripped over his words. It was a warming sight to behold. 

“If you have questions, ask them, though be mindful of whom you ask and when you ask.” Thorin crossed his arms and took half a step back to lean against the great crystal table that Elrond had examined the map on. Though his body language was not especially welcoming, he was sure that the Halfling could figure out that the fact that he remained there at all meant he was willing to indulge his curiosity.

"I shouldn't think it'd do me better, asking someone who's - er. Old-fashioned, as you said." Bilbo should really start making a habit of thinking before letting words out of his mouth, but it would require a great deal of practice before he could master it. Now was not the time. His little hobbit mouth was set in a stubborn line, and it was with genuine interest that he squashed away his reservations and ploughed right on.

"...But... how on earth does that _work_?"

In his youth, Thorin had been known for his impulsiveness, his unwillingness to think before he acted. Over the years and into adulthood, he had honed that into a warrior's instinct, and had let the grace of his position excuse the rest. But with those salacious thoughts not quite banished from his mind, he found himself falling on very old and dusty habits. He supposed that the Hobbit might see where Kili and Fili got it from. 

"You cannot learn how to lay with another through word or books, Halfling," Thorin's voice pitched every slightly lower and he pushed off the surface of the crystal table, drawing up to his full height and advancing towards Bilbo, his steps measured and quiet. He halted just short of invading Bilbo's personal space, his blue eyes trained on the Hobbit's face in an unblinking gaze. "You can only learn from from being shown, from being laid with." 

Bilbo made a small noise in the back of his throat, a sort of half-squeak, but once again, the words happened before the thinking did.

"I should think one could manage quite reasonably with book learnings," he said primly, as if he had any idea what he was talking about.

How deliciously infuriating he found the Hobbit's very proper demeanour, like a knot that could only be undone by clever fingers, or metal that deigned to be worked a certain way before it would yield. His grin grew somethnig very close to predatory, and he leaned into the Hobbit's space.

"Tell me, Halfling. Can a book teach you what wine tastes like? Or how a stew tastes. Did your book learnings prepare you for trolls or dwarves or elves? A book cannot touch you, Hobbit. It cannot embrace you, or kiss you, it cannot hold your wrists to a bed and undress you, it cannot make you blush." The weight of his gaze as he looked Bilbo over was almost like a physical force. "A book can neither fuck you nor make love to you, though the right one might be able to tell you what the difference is."

Bilbo stared. Just... stared, for a long moment, for the words took a bit to sink in but the eyes - oh, those eyes would slay him long before he could untangle the dwarf king's web of words. What did he say to such things? It was so far beyond anything he'd experienced, just as trolls and dwarves and elves were, not so very long ago.

"I-I've never," he stuttered, swallowing rapidly. "Anything at all, really. I don't suppose I'd know the difference." He meant the difference between a man's kiss and a woman's, but it came out a bit wrong in the wake of Thorin's words.

How tragic a Hobbit’s life that they were denied pleasure from almost half of their people. Thorin almost felt bad for them and their misguided ways. But far be it from him to dictate the ways of other people. He brought his focus entirely back on Bilbo, his grin widening at the smaller man’s stuttering admission. He could practically see the train of thought as it jumped around.

“You’ve never...? Fucked? Made love?” Thorin had the suspicion that that had not been what the Hobbit meant, but he was having his fun getting under his skin, so the prince remained deliberately obtuse. “Perhaps you should ask my nephews to show you the difference.”

Bilbo sputtered and snorted softly. "Well, no, but that's not - I've never. Anything. With anyone." He made a little wiggly motion with his hand in the air, though he wasn't sure what he was trying to convey, and it only served to demonstrate how very... very... close they were.

If you had told him, earlier that day, any other day, that standing very close to Thorin Oakenshield in an elvish library would've made him feel anything other than panic, he'd've laughed. Outright laughed. But now that it was happening, it wasn't like that at all. In an odd sort of fashion, he felt... safe, with the familiar dwarfish scent of leather and metal and sweat curling around him, as if he could protect him from all the world's strangenesses. Bilbo felt his muscles go slack and relaxed and he knew exactly why dwarves were so eager to follow him, this king of kings, this man made of confidence and gold.

"So I wouldn't know," he finished slowly, "if there was any difference. Beyond the obvious," and this time his gesture was very definitively beard-related, and a little curling smile touched his lips.

Thorin observed Bilbo quietly, huffing a slight, amused breath at the ineffective pantomime. His keen eyes noted the ease in which the Hobbit held himself, not the stature of a person in discomfort. And despite their questionable surroundings, Thorin found himself to be quite at ease in the younger man's company. The day had truly taken an unexpected turn, but he was never one to not take advantage of a fortuitous situation. 

"Ah, but you'll find that some men are as soft as a woman." He gentled his expression, not wishing to come off as hostile and threatening when it seemed that they were finally on some spit of amiable land. Reaching out a hand, he took hold of Bilbo's chin, smoothing his broad, calloused thumb along his jaw. "No two women kiss the same, and no two men kiss the same either, so the difference lies from person to person."

With his hand still on Bilbo's jaw, he became aware of how truly close they were. Curiosity flickered in his gaze, and he tilted his head down ever so slightly. "You've never been with or kissed anyone. Was that your own wish?"

Bilbo blinked. He could honestly say he hadn't actually thought that far, not until right at this moment, but with a warm thumb slipping over his skin, he couldn't say that he was in any sort of right mind to be thinking about it. "Um," he said, as eloquently as he was able. "Er."

He swallowed as he looked up into those inscrutable blue eyes. "...Well, it's." He let out a little shaky breath. "I wouldn't want it to be... an experiment," he mumbled, trying not to sound as pathetic as he felt. "That isn't to say - it isn't about what bits anyone's got, I know that. I just..." Bilbo squared his jaw and tipped his chin up just slightly, meeting Thorin's eye with all the confidence he didn't feel. "I'm not kissing anyone unless it's for real, thank you."

Perhaps there was something to the idea that dwarves and halflings were of similar heart. It was unkind of him, he would acknowledge to himself, to tease Bilbo as he had, but the halfling's response struck a chord with him. He nodded and pulled his hand back, straightening up and pulling out of Bilbo's immediate space, though keeping the amiable distance between them.

"A good policy to keep." His tone was a quiet rumble, with something like approval in it. Though in his day he, and many other dwarves, had done their share of cavorting and laying with others for casual fun, he had begun to understand those like Glóin and Dís, who had found one such other dwarf to commit themselves to. They knew in their hearts what was right for them, and it seemed that Bilbo did, too. And, though he was not likely to admit it out loud, he could respect that.

Bilbo nodded as well, and let out the breath he'd been holding. "Well. That's. Yes." He was still nervous, though, and he couldn't quite bring himself to move just yet.

“Be at peace, Hobbit. Neither myself nor anyone in this company will do anything untoward.” He spoke slowly and firmly, his demeanour a touch more resolute than an informal meeting in the library in the dark warranted, but this was the tone that made him a leader. The ability to instill confidence in those who followed him. “I will not, however, ask Fili and Kili to make a secret out of the bond they share, even if it discomfits you. That is something you will have to make peace with. Though,” and his gaze turned a bit speculative. “I have the feeling that it will not be difficult for you. You are unlike the other Shirefolk.” It was as close to saying that perhaps his initial judgement on the usefulness of a Hobbit in a company of dwarves was incorrect as they were likely to get that evening.

"It doesn't," Bilbo added, determined to have the last word on the matter. "Bother me. It doesn't at all." And with that, he turned quite red and spun around, slipping out of the library as quietly as he was able, which was quite quietly indeed. 

He had certainly given Bilbo a lot to think about, though, as they wandered off from Rivendell and headed for the Misty Mountains. He got used to the strange new definition of relationships quite easier than he'd anticipated, but as for Thorin's actions that night, and what he'd said... offered? That was what Bilbo couldn't quite wrap his mind around. Once again, he had no idea where he stood with the dwarven king, and though the rest of them seemed to have accepted him as one of the bunch, it looked to Bilbo as if he would never be able to live up to whatever it was Thorin was looking for when he turned those eyes back towards him.

Perhaps that was what had him so distracted, that he would quite literally lose his footing, and be dangled off the edge of a craggy precipice in the pouring rain, terrified that the company of dwarves would simply move on and let him fall.


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin was angry. Not at any one person specifically, just in general. The kind of anger that weighs in your bones, that you feel in your teeth and in your skin and in every fibre of your being. He was angry that he had lost so much, and more threatened to be taken from him. As the Rock Giants battled and he became separated from part of the group, all he could think as he saw them all collide into the side of the mountain just past his line of sight was that he had lost more. Lost his nephew and his brothers in arms, and that stupid gentle Hobbit who hadn’t had the good sense to stay in his lavish hole in the ground. 

The anger was not tempered by the relief that they lived, and the only wind that flickered the blaze of it was the wind of terror, as Bilbo clung off the side of the rock face. He reacted quickly and, he would admit to himself later, more than a little foolishly, practically flinging himself bodily off the cliff, down to grab Bilbo hard and haul him up, climbing right back onto solid ground. His anger, hot like the flames used to forge a sword, hot like dragon’s breath, licked at his own heels, turned inward, and for a moment he seemed to lose control of it. 

Vitriol spilled from his lips like poison, aimed at the gentle Hobbit. Hateful words about how lost he was, about his delicate sensibilities, words so hot with the flames of his anger that somewhere in the rolling hills of the shire, Bilbo’s home might spontaneously burst into cinders because of it. Dread settled like a cold stone in his stomach, dread and worry that he truly was leading the Hobbit to his death. Perhaps his words, far more aggressive than he perhaps should have liked, would be the final straw that broke the Hobbit and sent him home.

Within an hour he was already sorely regretting his words, but his pride bound him better than chains would, and kept him from drawing the Hobbit aside and explaining what had caused him to speak so sharply. But why should Bilbo believe him? It’s not as though he had said anything any differently for the duration of the trip. 

Sleep did not find him, as well he knew it wouldn’t, his mind too active, too caught on hidden doors and keys, on quiet libraries and chasms. On the irregular breathing of the smallest member of their company, on the shuffle of his movements, his belongings being packed away. He had done it, he thought bitterly to himself, he had finally pushed hard enough. And an astonishingly large part of him wanted only to pull him back. It was not safe, travelling alone. He was far from home and even in the company of others, Bilbo had managed to nearly have himself rent limb from limb. Perhaps it was safer if he just stuck with them.

•

Well.

Bilbo lay in the dark of the cave and thought to himself, _well._

_So that's what he really thinks of me._

He wasn't disappointed. He wasn't. No, disappointment was much too calm a word for the bitter emptiness he felt. All this time, all he'd ever wanted - 

Well, if he was honest with himself, and he did try to be, all he'd ever wanted was to be good enough for someone as beautiful as the King of Erebor.

 _Oh, bollocks,_ he thought with a miserable little wet wrench of his heart. _That just isn't fair, is it now?_ Because of course now was the time to realize how desperate he was for every scrap of Thorin's attention, how starved he'd become, how needy. And the one moment he'd had him close he'd pushed him away, not that Bilbo regretted it but he was right all along, little hobbits from comfy holes didn't belong in the company of kings.

Right. Well. The Tookish part of him was well and truly silent now, beaten down to a wretched corner of his wretched little mind. Bilbo Baggins, he thought, as he quickly and neatly packed his meager belongings, this _Baggins_ is going home. Back where he belongs. Out of the way, out of trouble, and out of Thorin Oakenshield's grand, majestic life.

"Back to Rivendell," he told Bofur through a tight painful knot in his chest. "He's right. I don't belong."

The Hobbit’s words, though not meant for his ears, stung, and though he knew in his heart that he did not mean them, Thorin found his anger stoked again. No. They did not have a home. But what did the Hobbit expect them to do? Not fight for it? What would he do for his cozy little home with his pantry and his doilies and his comfortable chair by the fire. 

What stopped Thorin from simply standing and snapping again was the tone used, the hurt there. As stung as Thorin was, Bilbo seemed even more so. He had the mind to rectify things, perhaps in the morning, if Bofur could get him to stay. To speak to him alone, with no comments made at his expense, no leering to see him squirm, simply to right things. But his train of thought got no further than that before he heard the curious sound of the floor beneath them coming to life and beginning to open up to drag them down.

•

It wasn't all that big a thing, deciding to come back after all. The wind had been taken out of his sails and it was a common belief among hobbits, even those most ingrained in their ways, that what will be was meant to be. Clearly, the world wasn't done with him quite yet, or it'd have let him go on his way peacefully as intended.

He wasn't at all surprised to hear Thorin assuming the worst; he did, after all, think less than nothing of a silly little unimportant hobbit. But he was not the only dwarf in the company. Bilbo could name them all now, and their fathers' names, and he knew a little something of each of them that made them one of a kind. He would not give up on them, not even for Thorin Oakenshield.

But he did feel a bit justified when he slipped off that magical ring. He did smirk a bit, at the shocked looks, and he wove a pretty speech, for words were his favorite weapons and he knew just how to use them when he had the chance.

"But I will help you take it back if I can," and he smiled, and before he could even help himself he realized he was watching Thorin most of all - still, somehow, still practically begging to belong.

Odd, how such a small creature could beget such strong emotions. From the urge to shun, to the desire to protect, enticing out a long hidden teasing nature, and stoking an all consuming rage. And now this. 

Shame.

It wasn't something the dwarf prince often entertained, but he felt it now. Shame that he had spoken so rashly, and thought so ill of Bilbo. He was justified, he thought to himself, at least a little justified, because the Hobbit had been about to leave.

He could have forgiven the Hobbit leaving before they fell, to unknowingly escape danger. He could not forgive the Hobbit finding his escape knowing the others were being tortured to death. But, if bruises and scratched and mud and grime were any indication, it looked like the Hobbit had run into his own troubles. And thus, on the heels of shame, came relief, like a balm against burns, cool and soothing, that they had all weathered the mountain. 

There was something else, too, something that uncurled in his chest. He couldn't give it a name, and as they were alerted to the sounds of pursuers, he couldn't give it time to make itself known. But something in the Hobbit's words, his speech, it touched a very cold, forgotten place in Thorin. He only hoped that they would survive the night so he could tell him.

•

He'd gone mad. Utterly, completely, stark raving mad.

That was the only explanation, it had to be.

Why else would he throw himself headlong at a massive orc, armed with nothing but a letter-opener and pure terror? 

Madness, it must be, he'd lost every bit of his senses, whatever ones still remained after setting out on this stupid, stupid voyage.

Bilbo was no fighter. He wasn't even the tiniest bit brave, in fact he had long considered bravery to be very foolish and ultimately pointless. He was not - this was not a thing that a hobbit did. It wasn't a thing that Bilbo did. He was clearly outmatched, clearly leaping headlong into the mouth of the beast, for - 

For Thorin. Because Thorin needed him, and every other blasted dwarf was content to sit there and gape like idiots, holding their collective breath and waiting for their king to enact his vengeance. _And they'd've let him die there, for honor's sake,_ he thought with not a small amount of frustration. So that left things to the only one who couldn't give a damn about honor, but did, apparently, give several very large damns about Thorin Oakenshield.

His stomach gave a sick lurch as his eagle banked and swooped, calling out with delighted tones that sounded very much like laughter. He did not like this, he did not like this one bit. But it was easier, thinking about how very far he was for the ground. It was easier than thinking of Thorin, clutched in the eagle-king's talons. Thorin, who might be dead for all they knew - no, no, he was _not_ thinking of that. Not at _all_. He was going to be just fine. Just. Fine.

If he died, Bilbo didn't know how he'd ever forgive the world. Not himself - he was right proud of himself, he knew in his heart that he'd done all he could. But if all he could do simply was not enough, then there was no such thing as justice in this world, or beauty. Nothing but pain and sorrow and regret and burning anger at the stupidity of life.

 _He has to be alive,_ Bilbo thought with a fervency bordering on desperation. _He has to be._

Somewhere beneath the tenuous surface of consciousness, Thorin lingered. He could feel the life draining from him as though he were a bag of sand, punctured and slowly draining, and he couldn't quite focus enough to hold on. Pain had flared along his side, bright and hot, but now was a dull throb, and slow, slick escape of blood where it ran and stuck his clothes to his skin.

It would be easy to rest now, easy to slip into the cool embrace of oblivion. For a moment, he considered doing just that. And then memories slowly began to float back to him, memories of stone and gold, of the taste of ash in his mouth. Memories of the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh. The sting of betrayal and the slow burn of anger and hate. He remembered the years labouring among men, the loyal dwarves who came to his side the moment he called. He remembered the vast sky above gentle hills, the quiet peace that was so suddenly disrupted. He remembered a Hobbit, too gentle to protest the invasion of his home, but strong enough to pledge himself to the reclaiming of someone else's. 

He remembered a Hobbit, slamming his tiny body into an orc and standing stalwart between a fallen dwarf and a fearsome, twisted foe. No. He could not slip away into oblivion, he could not go quietly with the night. He owed a great debt to Bilbo Baggins, and he could not bring himself to let the Hobbit's courage be for nothing.

He struggled against the lethargy, the cloying blanket of darkness; he fought against the smoke in his lungs and the oppressive weight of the future of his kind. He was calling out for the halfling before his eyes even opened, before he had his senses about him. Panic was cold in his veins for a moment. _What if,_ the dark voice in his mind said, _he died for you. What if you were nothing but cruel and he gave his life for yours._

But no. He was on his feet and he laid eyes on Bilbo, even more battered and bruised than last he could get a good look of him, fright and worry on his features. Every fear Thorin had about him spilled from his lips, every dark inkling and mean word he had said with the hopes that it would mean _away_ and _away_ would mean _safe_. And finally, finally, the words his pride had choked him on for days upon days upon weeks upon decades. 

"...I've never been so wrong in all my life." Relief flooded his tone, his face. Shaky on his feet, bruised and injured, the dwarf prince descended on the Hobbit like a wave, wrapping him up in his arms and holding him close. Absently, he pressed his lips to Bilbo's temple, his broad hands gently pressed to the smaller man's back. 

Bilbo was utterly taken aback. Completely. Every word of Thorin's diatribe had slid into him like fine needles, not hurting at the outset, but sure to leave him bleeding. He put on a brave face, ready to defend himself - and then.

And then.

Thorin Oakenshield smelled like blood and ash and sweat and grime, mixed with sweet mountain grass and pine resin and something rich and manly. He was strong and warm and for a second, Bilbo had no idea what to do, but he felt those lips on him and he melted into it, holding back as tight as he could, clinging to this beautiful beast of a man who somehow didn't hate him.

That, he had yet to understand.

He felt a hollow ache in his chest when Thorin pulled away; it only got worse as they caught sight of the distant mountain over all those trees. _Home,_ he heard Thorin murmur, and in that instant Bilbo felt several things very keenly - the yearning for things soft and warm and friendly, the breathless wonder of a place so loved by such dwarves, and that ache in his chest at the loss of Thorin's arms - oh, yes. That ache had a name and its name was also _home_.

Home. It was so close Thorin could almost reach out and touch it. Home made a place for itself in his chest, a mountain shaped place where hope spread like veins of gold. But there was room for something else there, too, and bringing his gaze back from the far away peak, he recognized its shape. The shape of someone small and warm pressed against his chest, or staring down danger, someone standing in the silver curtain of moonlight. It was almost a more terrifying thought than the dragon they would face. But Thorin Oakenshield was not one to run from fear. Not anymore. He would have words with Bilbo, though what those words were had yet to come to him.

His injuries left him fatigued, left him wishing for the very things he had derided Bilbo for. A warm bed, a hot bath. He’d take soft grass and a cold stream if it meant getting the blood out of his clothes. But regardless, he was the leader of their troupe, and he would not see his own needs tended to before the needs of his men. Once their meagre camp was set up, he made sure all their wounds were seen to as much as possible before his own, and even then, he sat up as they all retired to a well needed sleep, watching over them.

Bilbo was the last to join their camp, and he did so silently, slipping without a sound among the familiar shapes of thirteen sleepy dwarves. He paused for the barest fraction of a second at the double bulk of two dwarves curled into each other - Kili and Fili, no doubt - then went on his way.

He was both surprised and unsurprised to see that Thorin was still awake, and quite a bit dismayed, as well. He moved up to the solitary king, sat gently beside him and drew one knee up to his chin, tucking it against his chest.

Thorin’s keen eyes, well adjusted to the dark, tracked Bilbo’s movements across the camp, noting the hesitation, short lived as it was, as he passed his nephews. He would have to make reparations for his treatment of the Hobbit in Rivendell- for the whole trip, really, but his game of cat and mouse had been in poor taste, especially since it seemed Bilbo had a lion in him after all. He inclined his head in greeting as the Hobbit took a seat beside him, and he inhaled deeply, enjoying the quiet coexistence for a moment. 

"You should really be sleeping, you know," Bilbo murmured, unable to help the admonishment and worry in his tone. He'd almost died, Bilbo was allowed to be a bit worried for his well-being.

A deep chuckle rumbled out of his chest at the words of the other, short and amused. “As should you. Yet here we are.” Though truth be told, the sentiment was warmly received. It had been an age since someone had felt the courage to fuss over him, in whatever capacity. The other dwarves knew better, or thought him some shade of invincible. 

“What keeps you from slumber? Ground too hard?” Though the words were that of a tease, his voice was warm enough to cushion it, his baritone like honeyed mead in the crisp night air.

Bilbo snorted softly, though his lips curled up at the edges. "No, no. That hasn't been a problem for weeks now." He realized with a start that it was true; he could probably sleep like a babe on solid rock these days. No, it wasn't that. But there was certainly something keeping him up, and he drew in a breath, let it out slow and shaky. "I suppose I'm a bit cross with you, and it makes it difficult to relax."

“Oh?” Thorin arched an eyebrow, turning his entire body towards him, looking at him attentively in the dark of night. “I suppose you have enough reason to be cross with me. I’ve certainly treated you improperly. Tell me, why are you cross with me tonight. Perhaps we can address the issue and you can get some much-needed rest.”

He cast an eye over the Hobbit, from the tears in his clothes, the missing buttons, scratches and bruises and flecks of blood. He absently wondered how much of his own blood was on the Hobbit now. The quiet of the night left a great deal of space in his mind, enough to think of the entire journey thus far, enough to calm the tempestuous rage that lived in his bones, enough to put him in good enough humour in the company of someone he wished to call ‘friend’.

Bilbo opened his mouth. Then shut it. Then he spoke, and when he did, it was not at all the words he'd intended to say - which would have been something along the lines of 'you've really done a fantastic job of making me feel useless, which I am not, thank-you-very-much'. Instead, he said, "What on earth were you thinking, attacking him like that? You'd've gotten yourself killed and then where would we be?"

Of all the things he had expected Bilbo to open with, Thorin would admit that that particular jab was very far down the list. He looked off for a moment, face turning instinctually towards the lonely mountain like a compass pulled to true north. He was quiet a moment, holding his breath before letting it out slowly. 

“I was thinking that I have spent a great deal of time believing that I had avenged my grandfather and that I had defeated a demon.” He spoke slowly, turning back to look at Bilbo. “I do not like being wrong, even though apparently I spend the lion’s share of my time being just so.” 

There was a sardonic tone to his voice, a chord not often used, and if the thoughts that road led to were not so dark, he might have simply chuckled for his own sake. Instead, he laced his fingers on his knees and spoke again. 

“The last time Azog and I met, he took someone very dear to me. I was not prepared to watch him do it again. As I live and breathe, I will do everything in my power to protect those loyal to me.”

Bilbo sighed, the sigh of long-suffering and indulgent affection. Then he leaned over, let his head rest against Thorin's broad side. "You're an idiot," he murmured. "I mean, really. Don't you know by now we feel the same about _you_?"

And he said 'we', thinking he was mostly speaking for the dwarves, but really the more he thought about it the more he heard nothing but the echo of his own heart.

This time both of Thorin’s eyebrows rose, not exactly surprised by the Hobbit’s frank words and actions, but certainly affected. He huffed out a chuckle, and raised a hand to ruffle at his mess of curls. “Oddly, I had a moment to consider that when I saw something quite Hobbit sized throw itself at an Orc...”

He considered dropping his hand back to his lap. That would certainly be the proper, decent thing to do. Instead, he simply carded his fingers through Bilbo’s hair once more, with more tenderness than one might expect out of Thorin Oakenshield, exiled King under the Mountain. “On that note, what were _you_ thinking? Charging an Orc like that.”

Bilbo flushed, glad of Thorin's hand on him to shield the look on his face from the king. "I do believe I wasn't thinking at all in the slightest," he mumbled. "Not one bit. You dwarves are a bad influence on me."

“Take care, Hobbit,” the teasing tone in his voice was covered by a warning, and he grinned in the darkness, “soon we’ll have you drinking and singing dirty songs. And not a handkerchief in sight.” He chuckled again, shaking his head, the beads on his braids clinking gently against his armour. 

“I’ll ask you to think a bit more in the future. We would be upset to lose you, especially to Orcs.” He paused for a moment, looking down to try to see the Hobbit’s face. After a moment, he spoke again, much quieter. “ _I_ would be upset to lose you.”

Bilbo's heart thudded in his chest. Did he really just....? The words replayed in his head like a rumbling lullabye, and Bilbo knew he wouldn't soon be forgetting them. Not one bit.

"I would too," he whispered, under his breath. "I mean - that's really why I did it, isn't it? I didn't want to lose you."

With some careful shifting, Thorin took the edge of his great, fur lined coat, and curled it around Bilbo’s shoulders, tucking him close to his side. “Here. It is cold and I would not want you to catch a chill.” His words were murmured against Bilbo’s temple, soft in a way that Thorin so rarely was. “I am sorry, Master Baggins, for the way I have treated you. I underestimated you. It is not a mistake I will make again.”

Bilbo muttered and shifted and squirmed until he could get his legs slung over the dwarf's lap. There. Much more comfortable. "Now all I have to worry about is you over-estimating me," he muttered with a small sarcastic grin.

Thorin made a quiet sound in his throat at Bilbo's squirming, the arm around the smaller man's shoulders tightening imperceptibly for a moment. His side ached dully with the reminder of the danger they had so narrowly escaped, and for a moment he entertained the thought of never letting him go, of holding Bilbo Baggins close to his chest for the rest of his days. That would be impossible, obviously, for logistical reasons and for the fact that even seated beside him, the Hobbit had an unintended effect on him.

"You mean to tell me you _aren't_ a master thief?" He chuckled quietly, looking down to see the Hobbit's face where the moon illuminated it.

Bilbo felt his breath catch in his throat when Thorin smiled down at him like that, and suddenly he became aware of how close the dwarf was holding him, how the heat from his body bled into the aches and how he could almost feel the beat of his heart. He remembered their conversation back in the library at Rivendell, the intensity and the excitement, and how back then he'd hardly known anything about this beautiful beast of a king.

"I'm not," he mumbled, because Thorin had asked him a question after all. "Not really. Just a hobbit." And he swallowed, his thoughts running in circle after circle. This was a bad idea; a very bad one, but it seemed he wasn't entirely out of stupid bravery for the evening.

"...Do you remember - what I said, back in Rivendell?"

" 'Just a Hobbit', he says." Thorin tipped his chin down a bit and considered Bilbo for a moment, examining his face. "You said a great deal in Rivendell, and I remember all of it." He thought back briefly to that night, though it was so recent, so much had happened that it felt like an age. He remembered how it had felt to lean into Bilbo's space, and how different it was from the willingly given contact now. 

Bilbo wet his lips and sucked in a small breath. "I said I wouldn't kiss anyone if I didn't - care about them," which wasn't _precisely_ what he'd said, but that's what he'd meant.

“Yes, I had gathered that,” he cocked an eyebrow, a slight glint in his eye. “Go on.” 

No, no, Thorin really did not need to do that. Thing. With the eyebrow. It was distressing. "I, er," and by distressing clearly he meant _distressing to my ability to form words with my mouth._

"I think that might've changed," he muttered. "Not - that. I mean. I think." Oh, for - this was impossible.

Thorin shook slightly, as though containing a laugh, though certainly not at the Hobbit’s expense. He leaned a bit closer, as he had that night, so that they were essentially breathing each other’s air. “Tell me what you think, Bilbo.”

Bilbo made a soft noise in the back of his throat; a tiny keen of a whimper, something yearning and sweet. "Well, I can't think at all when you do that," he mumbled, and one hand came up completely unbidden to wind in the woven lapel of Thorin's coat.

Oh, but how that little sound thrilled him, sent a shiver up his spine and curled his mouth into a grin. “My apologies.” His murmured words were entirely unrepentant, and he made no effort to move, only pressed his palm to Bilbo’s side to keep him close though he had given no indication that he desired to move away. Thorin made no outward acknowledgement of the grip on his lapel, though it, too, registered on some deeper level in him. “Tell me, what has changed. What have you been thinking.”

The hobbit swallowed, and his breath ghosted out in a soft sigh against Thorin's face. When he closed his eyes the words came easily, flowed from his lips in a graceful stream. "I've been thinking that if you kissed me now, it would be very real to me."

“It pleases me to hear that.” And with very little ceremony, he laid a broad hand along Bilbo’s jaw, tilting his face up ever so slightly so that he might press a bit lower and brush his lips against the Hobbit’s, impossibly gentle in a way quite surprising for a figure such as he. It made Bilbo shiver; it was so unexpected, and all the more thrilling because of it. Then, with a pleased sigh, Thorin kissed him properly.


End file.
